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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Huts
Ashes
Forgive
Forgiving
Dust
Water
Love
Cinders
Life
Crust

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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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